Against the World
by firestorm26cmktellstales
Summary: John and Sherlock's relationship told in the style of Carl and Ellie's in UP.
1. A Humble Beginning

_This is a piece we wrote for a contest winner on our Facebook page- "Now Kiss for Science." They wanted to see John and Sherlock's relationship told in the style of Carl and Ellie's in UP. So, here it is._

* * *

><p>John's blonde hair gushed against the wind as he ran down the cemented pathway. The blue balloon he held behind him dragged in the air as he jumped over the cracked cement and pebbles.<p>

A noise from the house behind him caught his attention as he stopped dead in his tracks. The house was boarded up with wooden planks as the front door barely hung by its hinges. The long grass outside enveloped the front of the house as John stared up at it in almost disbelief.

He could hear a young voice yelling from inside as John cautiously approached the ramshackled house. He dropped to his knees where he peeked through the broken door, trying to find any evidence of who could be inside. As he crawled inside, he noticed the wooden steps leading up to the second level. They were broken and left to rot. The whole house was abandoned, like every living thing that ever inhabited it had died long ago.

John slowly pattered his way past the rotten steps, becoming face to face with the voice which led him here.

The boy was quite tall for his age. He couldn't of been any older than seven years of age. As he brushed his dark curls away from his face, he stared into John's hazel-green eyes, waiting for a reaction, but it never came.

"What are you doing here?" he asked as he slowly paced the floor back and forth with his hands held behind his back.

John's face suddenly turned to a hot tone of red as he gulped in an attempt to capture his voice.

"Uh. Nothing."

"Don't you know that this is an exclusive club, and only real detectives can get in here? Not just any kid off the street!"

John was speechless as he felt the air around him tightly wrap around his throat. He nervously fondled with his fingers as he opened his mouth to speak. "Um-"

"No matter. Welcome aboard. What's your name?"

"J-John. John Watson."

The boy standing in front of John nonchalantly bowed his head as he looked back up at him with a smirk. He reached into the pocket of his shirt where he pulled out an old bottle top with a safety pin attached. "You and me, we're in a club now." he said while he pinned the bottle top to John's jumper.

John slightly blushed as he gazed at the purple bottle top pinned to his jumper. He found himself slowly fondling with it as he hesitantly looked into the ocean of blue staring back at him.

"Who are you?" John questioned.

"My name's Sherlock Holmes. And one day, I'm going to be the best detective in the world."

* * *

><p>John laid in bed with a torch as he read one of his favorite mystery novels. The light shone over its text as John became enthralled, agonizingly turning to the next page. The corner of his eye caught a glimpse of colour as he looked up. The balloon he thought he had lost earlier that day, came floating through his window with a scroll attached to the end of it.<p>

As John peered around the balloon, he saw Sherlock. He sat on the windowsill in absolute silence, not speaking a word. "Well, are you going to take it?" he eventually asked.

John examined the balloon up and down as he spoke. "Uhh-" he said.

"Go on. Take it." Sherlock insisted as he lazily pushed himself away from the windowsill. "We're partners in crime now. For all you know, it could be a secret mission we need to complete."

John quickly untied the scroll on the end of the balloon as it continued to hover over him. As he slowly unrolled it, there was a picture of two men printed on either side, wearing the same clothes as the detectives in his books.

"I don't understand, what is this?" John asked as he firmly held the paper within his grasp.

"That's us. Well, one day it will be. It's going to be just you and I against the rest of the world."


	2. The Tale of the Missing Cat

"Sherlock, I'm tired, and it's late. I missed supper."

The sun was starting to set over the tops of the houses in their neighborhood. John was trailing behind Sherlock, his feet tired, his stomach grumbling. He hadn't eaten anything since the lunch his mum made him before Sherlock came tapping on the door asking if John wanted to solve a mystery with him.

"We haven't found Annie's cat, yet." Sherlock said, tightening his coat against the oncoming wind.

"I don't think we ever will. She's lost three cats already."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. John bumped into him, and nearly fell down on the cement below them.

"She what?" Sherlock asked.

"She's had three cats. They've all gone missing."

Sherlock gripped into John's shoulders tight, almost like a hug, and smiled wide.

"That's brilliant!: he shouted.

"Why is that brilliant?"

"Because that means murder, obviously."

He let go of John's shoulder and started running off down the sidewalk. John sighed, and patted his hand against his stomach. He was never going to get anything to eat. He tightened his loose shoelaces and ran after him.

"Why is cat murder a good thing?" he asked when he caught up to him.

"Because it's so much more interesting than just a missing cat."

"Sherlock, I really don't think someone is murdering Annie Ricther's cats. Who would do that?"

"Annie, of course. Come on, John!"

Sherlock started to run again, and John ran after him. They ended up in Sherlock's backyard, and Sherlock was rooting through a potted plant looking for something hidden inside the soil.

"What are we doing?" John asked.

"Getting shovels. We need to dig up Annie's backyard."

"Dig up her backyard? Sherlock, you're mad."

Sherlock found what he was looking for, a key to the padlock that kept the shed doors closed. John could smell beef stew coming from somewhere, he thought maybe from inside the house. Sherlock was mad, really he was. Annie was just terrible at keeping track of her cats; she wasn't murdering them. Just like no one was tampering with the phone lines in the neighborhood (certainly not Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, like Sherlock was near convinced of). John's mum said that the telephone lines were old, just like everything else in the neighbourhood, and sometimes they just made weird noises.

Sherlock was smart, but he couldn't be smarter than John's own mum.

The shed door opened, and Sherlock pulled out the small torch he carried around in his pocket to see his way through. The floor was made of soil and patches of grass, and their cobwebs hanging from the beams above. There was a noise as they stepped in; faint and high pitched. John followed the light of Sherlock's torch as he explored the corners. The sounds seemed to get louder as they got closer to a small mass in the very back.

Sherlock bent down to his knees and shined his light.

"Cats." John exclaimed.

In the back of Sherlock's shed there were three cats, and over a dozen kittens huddled together searching for warmth.

"Guess Annie didn't kill her cats after all."

"I guess not." Sherlock said, defeated.

John reached down and started to pick up the kittens and tucked them inside his coat. Sherlock did the same, until all of them were out, and in an empty box they took out from the shed. When everyone was accounted for, they carried the box down the street to Annie's house.

* * *

><p>John was lying on his back on the floor of his bedroom. He had on his new pyjamas his mum bought him for the upcoming season. On his chest, there was a small, warm ball of fur, sleeping and rising up and down with the rhythm of John's chest.<p>

"I can't believe you kept one of those things." Sherlock said, from above him on the bed, where he was lying on his stomach with an old crime novella in his hands.

John ran his fingers across the soft, white fur. "She needs a name." he said.

"I don't like cats."

"But she's our cat."

"I'm pretty sure she's yours."

John picked up the cat from his chest and sat up, lying her down in his lap.

"No. She's ours, because you share everything with your best friend, and you're my best friend, Sherlock."

Sherlock dropped his book and looked at John, still below him on the floor. "I am?" he asked, his eyes unblinking.

"Of course you are."

John reached underneath his bed, and pulled out a box. Inside was the purple bottle cap, Sherlock had pinned on him six months earlier, and set it on the bed.

"You and me against the rest of the world, right?" he asked.

Sherlock reached out to the chair next to the bed, and into the pocket of his coat, and pulled out his own bottle cap, setting it next to John's.

"Right." he answered.


	3. Sentiment

Sherlock stood in front of the long mirror while he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. As he inhaled a deep breath, he straightened out his black blazer feeling his nerves tie a knot inside the pit of his stomach.

The door behind him opened with a creak. "Oh, Sherlock. You look so handsome." A female voice said.

Sherlock let out a light breathed snicker as he looked himself up and down. "Handsome?"

"Yes. Very handsome." She continued.

"Thank-you, Mother. I can only hope that he thinks the same thing."

"You mean, John." She rightfully corrected as she buttoned up the last hole of his shirt. "And he will, Sherlock. Trust me- he's just as nervous as you are."

Sherlock bowed his head the same way he did when they first met. His face held that same smirk he did when he was no more than seven years of age.

"Sherlock. Are you ready?" his Mother asked as she gently brushed down the sleeves of his blazer.

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be." he replied in a soft tone.

* * *

><p>John's eyes shifted into Sherlock's as if he was the only thing keeping him alive. He could of sworn that just for a moment he had stopped breathing- losing all possible breath, but Sherlock's eyes gave him a new life he never knew he had.<p>

Sherlock leaned his head in close to John's. His mouth gently brushed along his earlobe as he spoke "are you ready?" he asked while their fingers slowly fondled with one another.

"I'll always be ready. From the first day we met- I was ready."

Sherlock smiled as he gently pushed his lips onto John's. The feeling of their connected mouths caused Sherlock to buckle at the knees. He could only assume that the Priest had already said what he needed to say.

The two of them had agreed months ago that vows were tedious, and in no way would be able to resemble their love for one another. It's not like they never tried. The both of them tried until they thought their hands were going to fall off, but everything which was written was a clear understatement. Sometimes emotions are too strong to put into words.

* * *

><p>"I can't believe we bought this place. What were we thinking?" Sherlock asked as he pecked John's neck up and down.<p>

"It's practically been our second home since childhood. We used to do everything here."

"Sentiment gets the better of you, John."

John slightly chuckled at Sherlock's remark as he slowly threaded his fingers through the coarseness of his hair. "Even you have to have some type of sentiment, Sherlock."

"I don't need sentiment when I've got you."

John dropped his head back onto Sherlock's shoulder as their eyes locked onto one another. "Well, soon, this is the house we're going to call home."

"We have been living together for years now, John-"

"Yes. I know that. But, we also live in an apartment."

Sherlock sighed as he placed his hands around John's hips. "Mm. And I think our apartment suited us perfectly."

"It does. But, you do have to admit, it's quite small..and-"

"And what?"

"Well, it's not like we haven't discussed a third member coming into our family."

Sherlock's eyes suddenly widened as he placed a gentle peck on the center of John's forehead. "I know. We have discussed it numerous times. And, perhaps sooner would be better than later."


	4. Married Life

They settled into married life easily; days that weren't spent working were filled with picnics in the park, and slow walks along the Thames, even when they were working, they still saw each other, popping into one another's office between classes for a quick kiss or to share a sandwich. And every morning, just before they left the house, John ruffled his fingers through the hair Sherlock spent at least an hour trying to tame, breaking free most of the unruly curls. Sherlock always made a face, but he never let John miss a morning.

In the meantime they fixed up the old house, bringing life into something that someone had left to die a long time ago.

They wanted children, and found a woman through a mutual friend who was willing to be a surrogate. They debated for weeks over who was going to be the biological father.

"You're clearly the better choice." John said, running his fingers through Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock laughed, "Why am I the better choice?"

"You're gorgeous; you know that, and you're genius. If we use me, he'll grow up to be some jumper wearing bore."

"Or she'll be loyal and kind, and brave."

"But not beautiful."

Sherlock lifted John's free hand, and pressed a kiss onto his knuckles, "Very beautiful."

In the end, they chose Sherlock. John would do it the next time.

They renovated the spare bedroom; painted the walls a neutral gray, hung cream, blue and green paper lanterns from the ceiling, and multi colored alphabet decals on the wall. They framed the letter "H" in white and placed it above the cot. John's mum bought a rocking chair, and everyone they knew bought stuffed animals that got placed on a high shelf between pop-up books and nursery rhymes.

They were excited, and they were nervous, but they were ready.

And then it was taken away from them.

John was sitting in his chair, a cup of untouched tea growing cold in his hands. Sherlock came out from the kitchen, and stood next to him, sliding his hand over his shoulder.

"We can always try again." Sherlock said quietly.

"That room upstairs was meant for him. We can't just put a different baby in there, and finding Mary was lucky; it's not easy to find a surrogate. Maybe we just-"

"Maybe in a few months then, a few years, we try again."

"And what do we do until then?"

Sherlock pushed something into John's chest. John wrapped his hand around it and pulled it away. It was a book; old and worn, and familiar.

"You want us to read old crime novels?"

"I want to solve crimes."

John laughed, "I'm sorry; you what?"

"Come on, John; we used to do it all the time."

"We used to look for missing cats and stop a few bullies. We never solved any actual crimes."

"But we can."

John opened the book and flipped through the pages. He remembered all the nights he and Sherlock sat in their tent and took turns reading the pages out loud. Back then it all seemed so fantastical; the hero and his sidekick solving murders all throughout the world. They used to lie awake underneath their blankets and talk about how they would have done things differently. Somehow Sherlock was always the detective, and John was the silly sidekick.

"He isn't silly, John. The hero needs him. He would be lonely without him."

Sherlock slid into John's lap, his long legs spilling over the edge and teasing at the arm of his own chair. John set the book down, and sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, and started to laugh quietly.

"Alright." John said. "Let's do it."

Sherlock smiled, satisfied.

"We'll need to save of course; we can turn the last bedroom into an office, put ads in the paper."

John watched as Sherlock's face lit up while he spoke and made plans. He looked almost as excited as he did when they found out the procedure had worked and Mary was pregnant; almost.

"Sherlock?" John asked, but he was still talking, so John tried again.

"Sherlock?"

Nothing.

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

John turned Sherlock's head toward him and pressed a kiss to his lips.

"I love you."

"I love you too." Sherlock replied, before continuing on his rant of everything they would need to do.


	5. The Only Two in the World

Weeks soon turned into months as the two of them slowly but surely continued the renovations of their house. Every spare moment they had together was spent inside the office. They read every newspaper they could get their hands on- in hopes of finding a crime that the police had not yet discovered.

They were trying to save money to the best of their ability, but it seemed like every time they had saved a substantial amount, something would always come in and sweep it out from underneath their feet.

"Sherlock, this is useless. We have been at this for months now. The biggest crime we have had is a robbery we foolishly tried to stop-"

"Well, we stopped it, didn't we?"

"Yes. We did. But you broke your arm as a result."

"People break their arms everyday, John- it's one of the many consequences of living."

John snickered as he folded his paper up in his hands. He stared at Sherlock while he sat across from him, watching him scan the paper for any possible crime he could get his hands on. Without any warning John suddenly reached over the table and pulled at the scruff of Sherlock's shirt. He pushed their faces together as he tugged down at his bottom lip- planting a subtle but firm kiss along the rim of his mouth.

"That feeling never gets old." John said as he ran his fingers through his dark curls. "And I don't think it ever will."

* * *

><p>It didn't take long until the years slowly passed. Summer went as Winter fell, and the two of them still felt more in love than they ever had been. Everytime they stared at each other, the two of them still felt that same weakness in the knees they got on their wedding day, and any time after that in fact.<p>

John pulled at Sherlock's woolen, black trench-coat as he adjusted the collar of his shirt. "I still remember when you got this." he said.

"So do I." Sherlock said with a smile as he softly guided John's hands down his sternum. "Do you remember when I had one, almost identical to this as a child?"

"Ofcourse I do. I still remember when you scooped up those kittens in your arms and rescued them."

Sherlock's smile soon turned to a frown as he looked down at the floor in despair. "I know, I may have never shown my love for, Nora. But I do miss her."

John fruitlessly rubbed the back of Sherlock's hand while he spoke. "I know you do, Sherlock- so do I. She was the best cat and companion we could of ever asked for. She was always there with us through both thick and thin."

Sherlock tried his best to smile as he kissed the back of John's hand. "Thank you." he said.

"Thank you? For what?"

"For always knowing who I am on the inside. Even if I don't always show it."

The two of them always knew that one day they were going to grow old together. And now that day has come. The two of them weren't near as energetic as they used to be. So many years had passed since their last case together, and they knew not many remained.

As the two of them cleaned the house daily, they done it together or not at all. John would sweep the floor as Sherlock dusted the mantlepiece. While Sherlock wiped down the wooden structure, he picked up the photo frame sitting on top. It was a photograph of him as a child- it was back in the days where he had so many dreams and so many aspirations. He was holding a magnifying glass and one of his favourite crime novels.

With a slight frown he looked over to John, thinking about the old days. The days when they did go out and solve crimes together. But, he also thought of the day when he promised John that the two of them were going to be real detectives- not any of this kid stuff. John was still waiting, and he was going to be waiting for a very long time.

* * *

><p>Sherlock tucked a packet of business cards into a picnic basket. It was full of food for the two of them to enjoy. As the sun slowly began to set the yellow flowers on the grassy knoll blew against the breeze of the wind. John scampered up the hill, trying his hardest to catch up until he fell onto the firmness of his knees. Sherlock ran over to John, dropping onto his own within an instant.<p>

"John?"

John said nothing.

"John? Can you hear me?"


	6. Goodbye, John

John laid in the bed of the hospital, itching at the IV stuck in hand. He just wanted to be out of there, and be home in his own bed, Sherlock next to him,reading a book.

Sherlock liked hospitals very little, and he had been in and out John's room sporadically since he woke up, checking to make sure he was okay; comfortable, and then sneaking away.

John was just about to try and get some sleep when he saw a shadow outside the door to his room. It started to come into view; a blue balloon with something small tied around the string. John reached out for it as it neared his bed, and untied it.

Sherlock Holmes + John Watson Holmes

Consulting Detectives - The only ones in the world.

John smiled, and ran his finger over the raised ink. He heard the shuffle of footsteps and saw Sherlock's looming figure sulk next to his bed.

"These are lovely." John said, "Silly, but lovely."

"Not silly." Sherlock told him, sitting on the edge of the bed, and taking John's hand in his own.

"Right. Well, I can't wait to use them when I get out of here."

Sherlock smiled, and rubbed his fingers over John's knuckles. They both knew, but neither of them would say, that John wasn't going to be getting out of there and going home.

They had gone up against the world, and won every single time, but this time, the world was going to get the better of them.

* * *

><p>Routine was hard to break. Every morning Sherlock woke up and made two cups of tea before he realized he only needed one. Every morning he divided the paper, before he realized there was no one there to share it with. He had been in love with John since he was seven years old; he was his whole life, everything he ever knew was wrapped up neatly in his mulled blue eyes. So, now that they weren't there for Sherlock to look into anymore, he wasn't really sure what he was going to do.<p>

They never tried for more children, and their family had all long gone. Sherlock was alone in every sense of the word, though to be honest, that was the way he liked it. Something about John's presence made the rest of the world more tolerable, but without him...everyone was an idiot, and Sherlock had no time for idiots, so he stayed to himself, stayed in the house, and ignored the knocks on the door from neighbours and service workers.

He only wanted to sit in his chair, next to where John should be, and exist until it was time for him to exist no longer.

Months of nothing passed him by; the city outside his door changed. Sherlock slowly started to come back to himself, to remember what it was like to be a part of the living. He dusted off an old box one morning, and pulled out items he hadn't seen in an age. Old books, the first collar from when Nora was a kitten, leaves they had collected from the ground in the autumn, and two rusting bottle tops; safety pins stabbed through the aluminum. Sherlock pulled them out, and ran his thumb over the fading purple.

He walked over to the mantle where the pictures of their entire lifetime together sat in a row, and set the bottle tops down in front of a snapshot from their wedding day.

"You and me, John." he said quietly to the frame, "Against the rest of the world."


End file.
